


Metanoia

by BastetsBeloved



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Other, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-12 04:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7085065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BastetsBeloved/pseuds/BastetsBeloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Chosen.</p><p>It's been nine long years since Sunnydale vanished into a hole in the Earth. A new council has arisen from the ashes. New Watchers and Slayers train daily. The world is peaceful.</p><p>Rupert Giles is still out of a job, but at least this time its on purpose. The dead need tending, and he's more than willing to do it. Unfortunately, he can only enjoy his retirement for so long before a very ill Willow drags him back into the land of the living. He can only hope that he stays there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

__

**_Prologue_ **

 

The yellow light of the Flowers’s cottage shone like a beckoning hand from amidst the trees and bushes. He’d arrived slightly later than expected, but Amelia Flowers had welcomed him in anyway.

He liked Mrs Flowers. She’d offered him a very weak cup of tea and some biscuits that tasted like they’d been made in 1985. Her soft blue eyes were downcast as they made small talk. She was so young, he realized. Not more than 30. As they sat at the table in her tiny blue-patterned kitchen, she told her story.

“Christine was always… a very quiet girl.  She liked riding her bicycle, and playing little games with her friends. She um… won an art contest once. Just a little one that her class had put on. It was a picture of a horse on a f-field…” She choked and Rupert reached out to place a comforting hand over hers.

“It’s alright,” he said. “Go on.” Mrs. Flowers gave him a weak smile and removed her hand from his to take a sip of tea.

“When did she start behaving differently?” he prompted.

“A few months ago,” she said. “It wasn’t all at once, it was sort of, you know, gradual.  One day she came home with a bunch of flowers. Said her friend Mary had given them to her. Turns out she’d stolen them from Mrs Price’s garden! Imagine, having to explain such a thing.”

“I take it then you thought she’d made Mary up.”

“I did,” Mrs. Flowers said softly.“I did.”  She toyed with her cup, aligning it with the circular pattern of the tablecloth. “Caught her in the garden once. She’d made a little hut or something out of branches.  I thought maybe she was playing house, but she had a little fire going in a bowl.  It smelled, I don’t know, like incense or something. And she was chanting. It didn’t  _ sound _ like her, but when she looked up at me she was fine. Just the same old Christine. I didn’t even remember the whole thing until a month later.”

“Is that when she…?”

“Yes. She went missing that March. The whole town went to look for her. The police… everyone was so kind. ” She was trembling as she took another sip of tea. “They found her a few days later in the woods. There were scars all over her body. Symbols. But she was alive. “ A sob crept into her voice. “If I’d known then--” she began.

“But you didn’t. You couldn’t have known. You mustn’t blame yourself,” Rupert said. Mrs. Flowers nodded her assent.

“The police were anxious to find out who’d done that to her,” she continued. “ The other parents in the town too. Everyone was frantic.  I kept Christine at home at that time. She healed up pretty well, but I just wasn’t sure she was ready to go back to school. She seemed so  _ different _ . She hardly spoke. The doctor said it was to be expected. She couldn’t talk when the police were in the room, and eventually she gave up. I was just… out of my mind I guess. I couldn’t comfort her; she didn’t like to be touched, and even when they healed over, there were still those white scars all over her arms. I didn’t know how she’d ever feel safe or normal again.  I told her over and over that I loved her, and I’d never let something like that happen to her again. And do you know what she said? She said  _ Mary _ would keep her safe.“ Rupert nodded encouragingly at her.

“And then one night I woke up. I can’t remember why. Maybe a nightmare. I just woke up feeling absolutely terrified. I ended up just pacing around my room to calm down a bit. Then I thought I’d just peek in on Christine, just to make sure, you know, that she was sleeping well, but she wasn’t there. And I… I heard a noise in the loo… just a really quiet… I thought it might be the cat…” Her hands began to shake and Rupert felt that it had been enough.

“You don’t have to keep going, Mrs. Flowers,” he said gently. “I read the coroner's report.”

“She did that to herself,” she said softly. “She… it… it was merciless. I  _  tried  _ to help. I just couldn’t stop her… The cuts were so deep. I couldn’t stop the bleeding. I still hear it at night. That awful choking sound.” She looked up suddenly at him, tears edging her eyes.

“Oh, God, you must think I’ve lost it. I don’t even know if I’m sane anymore.” She was struggling to hold back her sobs, and as Rupert reached over to gently touch her shoulder she burst out crying. Her fingers found their way to his jacket, and he held her as she wept into his shoulder.  

“She was in so much pain. How can she rest in so much pain?” she sobbed.

“Shhh, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” he said automatically. “ I’ll make sure Christine rests.” Thankfully, as he became more uncomfortable, Mrs Flowers seemed to grow more calm, and finally she pulled away, wiping her face on her sleeve and apologizing profusely.  Rupert resisted the urge to wipe at the stain on his jacket.

There was a long silence which Rupert was unsure how to interrupt. It was a delicate question, but Ms Flowers surprised him by bringing it up first.

“You need something of hers, don’t you?” she said.

Rupert looked up at her in shock.

“Erm… yes,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “ The cleansing ritual will need an anchor. Something tied to her body would be preferable. A toothbrush or a comb would be ideal.”

Mrs Flowers nodded. The red hadn’t yet drained out of her face, but she was more composed than he’d ever seen her. She turned abruptly and left the room, and Rupert was left to contemplate the terrible stillness of the house.

The sounds of the storms seemed muffled here, and Rupert vaguely recalled there being a word for the amniotic feeling of listening to pouring rain while being safely inside.  

“Amni-- or was it circum-- ,” he muttered to himself.

“Sorry?”

Rupert looked up. Mrs. Flowers stood before him, holding something very carefully in the palm of her hand.

“I’m sorry. I was just remembering something. Is that the item?” he asked. Mrs. Flowers nodded and then handed him a little lock of hair, tied with a bow.

“It’s from her first haircut,” she said. “Will it work?”

“Yes. It’s perfect,” he said. “I know it’s a sacrifice but--”

“No, as long as it helps her. I don’t… I don’t want to hear her anymore. It’s too much,” she said. Rupert nodded and then pulled a plastic bag from his pocket. He sealed the hair carefully and then tucked it back into his jacket.

“Thank you,” he said. “I give you my word that Christine will be taken care of.” She smiled at him, but he could see the tiredness in her eyes.  “I can perform it tonight if you have a shed I can use. It’s… not meant to be done in a dwelling, but it’s better if I can be close to a place with meaning to her.”

“There is a shed, but won’t the storm make it difficult?”

“It’ll be fine. I can adapt with what I’ve brought.”

_ I can adapt with what I’ve brought?  _ he thought miserably, sometime later.  _ God what possessed me to say that? _

He’d set up as well as he could in the shed, but a persistent drip in the roof had spoiled his circle more than once, and nearly put out the fire beneath the brass basin in the center.

As he prepared the incense, Rupert caught sight of himself in the bowl.  It was a familiar face, and yet a wholly new one.  An accident with some very warped time magic had reset his aging body  and he couldn’t quite reconcile what he had been to what he was now. He looked very tired for his apparent age of 44, though a bit younger than one would expect of a man in retirement. There was a loud cry in the distance, and he startled, nearly dropping the bowl into the charcoals. He heard the cry again, softer now against the howling wind, but he had more important things to attend to.

There seemed to be a lot of sobbing in this line of work, he thought as he added the ingredients. Magic felt so strange to him now that it had been reborn, but then again, each experience with magic was new. Each spell was like a kiss, unique, familiar, a gentle dance of soul and sex and love. Oh god, he was getting sentimental in his old age wasn’t he?

The hiss of the match sent a shiver up his spine as he lit the first candle.  Green in the North. Yellow in the East. Red in the South. Blue in the West.  As he lit the last candle (blue, to his left) he inhaled deeply. Then he blew out the match and exhaled, letting the tension release from his body.  Smoke rose from the basin, twisting and curling into vague shapes.  In the far off distance, he heard the cry again, and goosebumps rose on his flesh.

“Calm yourself,” he whispered.  His heart beat loudly in his chest, a counter-rhythm to the words of the incantation. No, that wouldn’t serve his purpose at all.  

“Goddess Persephone,” he said aloud, and cast a lock of hair into the coals. “I ask of you to guide my heart and mind. Lend me your hands to bind your child. Lend me your voice to let her speak. I give you ash to give her form. I give you smoke to give her breath. I give you blood--” and he drew the dagger across his forearm and let the blood run down into the basin, “to give her being.” The Greek flowed easily over his tongue, hot and sweet in his mouth as he spoke the words. A familiar thrill ran through his body.

There was a shrill howl just outside the door of the shack, and the candles flickered.  He held his breath. There was another beat.  _ Was that her _ ? he wondered. He returned to his work.

It was a cheap summoning spell of his own invention, one that relied far more on favor than on magic. His blood, at least, his family’s blood, held its own allure to the Goddess, but she was capricious.  The circle he’d made was crude, protective words in Greek, not in Latin and he’d only a faint idea of what he was dealing with: ghost, not demon, but that was all he knew.

He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his senses. When he opened them again, there she stood.

The ghostly form of Christine wavered before him in the smoke that rose from the bowl, then solidified until one might have almost thought a real child stood in front of him.  He recognized the marks immediately.  _ Chymerian binding ritual,  _ he thought. The scars glowed faintly red against the grey of her skin. Christine was too innocent to hold enough malice to keep her spirit tethered to this Earth. Demonic magic had wormed its way into her soul, and grounded her in her mother’s home, there to draw more victims into the demon’s sphere of influence.

Looking up at this tortured child reminded him again of why he was here. How could he have made Buffy understand? Bringing lost souls to rest was more than a retirement, it was his penance.

He’d seen this sort of magic before. He’d  _ used _ this sort of magic before, though not for something so vile. It had been cast in blood and flesh, and so would take blood and flesh to break.  He could use his own body of course, but the summoning spell had created a surrogate body upon which to work the counterspell.

The girl didn’t move as he made a fresh cut in his arm. He drew the knife away covered in blood, and then paused. To undo the binding, he would have to carve over the marks one by one, and the thought of slicing into an 8-year-old girl made his stomach turn, however dead she might be. God if he’d only thought to bring some scotch along.

Despite himself, he held the knife steadily as he chanted, feeling the faint release with each mark desecrated. Each cut drew more blood from his wound and he was trembling and pale by the time he reached the last mark on the inside of her ankle.

“Dammit,” he whispered. The knife slipped from his hand and clattered onto the cement floor.  His vision was beginning to blur, though from blood loss or from overuse of magic, he couldn’t tell. The sheer dizziness forced him to sit down, and he tried to steel himself against passing out, gulping down deep breaths of air.

“You’ve over-exerted yourself,” said a voice. He looked up. The girl hadn’t moved the entire time, nor should she have; the body was a temporary vessel of magic and clay. It was only meant to last the length of the ritual. As he looked up at in in horror, he realized that the body’s eyes glowed faintly silver. The voice was androgynous, and in his weakened state the sound wormed its way into his ears and skull, pulsing in his brain.  Desperately he groped around for the knife, knowing full well that if he lost consciousness the demon would invade him just as it had the child.

“You may banish me,” it said, though the body’s lips never moved. “But you will never banish what follows.” Rupert’s hand closed on the handle of the knife and with a last burst of effort, he lunged forward, nearly severing the foot in order to destroy the mark. As he lost consciousness, he felt the rush of wind as the body crumbled to ash.  Warmth enveloped him, blurring the edges of his pain.

_ Thank you, _ something whispered _. And for this you shall have a gift.  _ Rupert opened his eyes.

The moonlight shone down upon him, revealing the familiar forest in which he stood. For the first time, he realized that this was, in fact, a dream. He’d had the exorcism nightmare before, memories of that cursed child in Kent that refused to leave him. This however was different. This had never happened before.

Where the child had been was something that he could not look at, save through shielded eyes.

The light of the creature was blue. The night was chill. Beside him, a young woman shivered. He thought he recognized her, but the soft glow of the creature in front of them both was not enough to illuminate her features. He sensed that he knew the man next to him, though the man next to him did not at all resemble the person his sense memory told him it was. The man was as tall and sharp as the young woman was petite and gentle, his high cheek bones the only thing that stood out in the dim light.

His own mouth tasted of bile, and he finally turned to look at the shape of the creature.

It was a woman… he thought. Or was it a man? He wasn’t certain. The shape kept changing as he gazed upon it, and though its light was not bright enough to show his companions’ faces, it was bright enough at least to make the creature’s face unclear.

He stepped forward, and the liquid outline of the creature shifted, pulsed, reached towards him.

_ Rupert Giles,  _ it said, or rather he felt it say. The man at his side placed a hand on his shoulder in an assuring way.

_ “Don’t worry,”  _ said the man, and that voice was soothing, familiar. English. _ “It likes you.” _

On his right side, he felt a slender hand entwine its fingers with his. When he turned to look at the woman, the same thing happened on his left, but he felt the strength in that hand, the long worn callouses.

_ Rupert Giles _ , said the creature again. _ Do not look for me. In your heart is chaos, in your spirit is hope and in your soul is fire. To seek is to uncover yourself. _

_ “That seems stupid _ ,” were the words that fell from his lips, and he immediately sensed that this had not been the wisest repartee. The creature, like silvery mist, surged forward, around him, obscuring his vision. Its head leant towards his, and when it spoke again, he felt the beat of its heart, pulsing red from its center. When it kissed him, he felt the same beat in his chest, felt tendrils of silvery smoke, insubstantial flesh, encircling his waist. It pulled away, and he had the sudden notion that it was preparing to devour him whole.

_ Rupert Giles,  _ it said a third time. _ You taste of magic. _


	2. The Hermit

**Chapter 1**

 

He was still shaking the remnants of the dream off of him as he trudged through the grass.

The first peals of thunder echoed over the hills. Out of instinct, Rupert tugged his coat closer around himself. He had a vague feeling that he should remember more; dream recollection had been a significant part of his Watcher training. Perhaps he was out of practice.

The rain beat down mercilessly, stinging his face as he walked. He’d left his car parked about half a mile back, hidden behind a thick clump of trees; no sense in standing out any more than he already did. Every so often his glasses would fog up and he cursed the humidity even as he whipped them off to clean them. Warmth and moisture muffled magical perception _,_ and his sense was especially weak. _Finding the entrance is going to be a bloody nightmare_ , he thought.

He wandered blindly for a bit, blundering into a few puddles and nearly breaking an ankle in the process.  Around his neck, the key burned warmer as he approached, hot as he drew near. _A bit more to the left_ , he thought, and then he felt it.

There was just the slightest resistance as he stretched out his hand in front of him. He looked closer. Just to the left of his hand he saw it, a faint ripple, like the distortion of a heat wave.  Rupert breathed a sigh of relief.

The key crackled as he touched it, sparking yellow and blue as he removed it from his neck and pushed it into the lock. As he turned it, the world around him changed, swirling violently in blue and yellow flashes before settling into a familiar pattern.  Before him stood a wooden gateway that led directly into a covered courtyard.  He stepped inside, and removed his coat, grateful to be out of the rain.

The Safehouse was hidden from view, shifting locales every few months. At the moment it was located in the wilds of Scotland and Rupert couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps Jo Rowling had let on more than she knew when she wrote of a wizarding school that was spelled to keep outsiders from seeing it.  They shared certain features, but the Safehouse was more of a meditative retreat than a school, though magic was certainly taught there. Arcane knowledge was passed on mostly through oral tradition, and usually the stark hallways echoed with the sing-song murmurings of magical poetry. Now it was silent, save for the pounding of the rain and the distant echo of footsteps.

Approaching footsteps, he realized, and stood as a middle-aged woman in dark robes rounded the corner.

“Rupert! It’s lovely to see you,” she said, taking his hands in hers. “How did it go in Kent?”

“Badly,” he said. He gave her hands a squeeze, feeling at once how fragile they were. Arcadia had an eternal quality to her, but she must have been at least twice his own age; he remembered his grandmother introducing them when he was a child.

“You look like shit,” Arcadia said fondly. As she looked down at his hands she frowned. Then he smoothed up the sleeve of his jumper, revealing a series of jagged scars that had only just healed over.  “Is this from…?

“Yes,” he said. “It was rather aggressive.” Arcadia patted the scar gently and then pulled the sleeve back down.

“Poor child. She must have been so lost.”

Rupert nodded and Arcadia let his hands go at last. He thought he might have felt the slight tingle of magic as her fingers left his, but he couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t had a real sense for magic since his Ripper days.

Or rather… since that night.

“Rupert? Something troubling you?” Rupert snapped out of his reverie and looked back into Arcadia’s steely grey eyes.  There was a twinkle of something there. Was it fondness or amusement? Or pity? He coughed and then began to speak.

“Right, sorry.  Do you have those books for me?"

“Yes,” she said, beckoning for him to follow her. The corner she’d come around led out into a veranda. Past the streams of water dripping from the roof, Rupert could see the bungalows of the other initiates.  The dwellings appeared to be connected, and Rupert imagined that the compound was designed specifically in that manner to foster a sense of community.  It made him a bit claustrophobic, if he had to be honest.

“In here,” Arcadia said, opening a door at the end of the first walkway.  He followed her into her office, noting that it was as spartan as the rest of the building. On the desk was a small stack of weathered volumes. As he took the first book up, Arcadia went to the desk and pulled a sheaf of papers out of one of the drawers.

“Look at these,” she said. “ I had the girls draw them separately, to make sure there wasn’t any cross-contamination. They’re all fairly spot on.”  Arcadia began to lay the papers out. Each paper had a variation of the same symbol, an intricate swirl that might have been a very knotted ‘H.’  "I'm going to need you to investigate this, Rupert,” she said.

"Oh," he said. He'd suspected Arcadia hadn't invited him up here for a quick chat. "You mentioned the Three have been reporting a shift in the meridians. Am I to understand they’ve also had recurring dreams of this symbol?

“Yes. I’ve never seen anything like this before,” she said, turning each of the papers over in turn. "I’ve nothing to go on at all."

“It doesn't resemble any of the Chymerian demonic hieroglyphs,” he offered. He had absolutely no idea what it meant or what it hailed from, but something about it seemed familiar.

“Look a bit harder, man. Rack your brains. It has to mean something! We haven’t had a mass vision since--”

“You know as well as I do that the meridians shift from time to time on their own. Even something as small as an amateur’s levitation could have triggered it,” he said. “Why are you wasting my time with this?”

“That’s exactly why I _am_ wasting your time with this,” said Arcadia sharply. “There’s no sense in getting all the other Covens riled up because of what might be an echo. You’re my only impartial investigator.”

“You know, this isn’t my job anymore, Arcadia. This seems more like something that Buffy’s people would handle.” Rupert said abruptly.  “Or rather… Dawn,” he amended. “I know. I know,” he said, seeing the look on Arcadia’s face. “The new Council hasn’t always been the most stable--”

“You know I don’t trust her, Rupert. She’s not one of us,” she said with a look that Rupert couldn't quite read. “And now that you’ve left them we’ve no idea what sorts of mischief they’ve been up to. “  

“Not sure what you mean by ‘one of us’,” Rupert said, stiffening in indignation.

“Buffy’s unnatural. All Slayers are.” She looked down at the symbol, brow furrowed. “They weren’t born with magic. They can’t tap into it as we do. It was thrust upon them. Cursed into them if you will. Dawn is just a mere human. How can she hope to have our best interests at heart?” She stared down at the paper a bit longer. “Willow still keeps contact I suppose. She comes when she needs us but I’d hardly call her loyal.” The corner of her mouth twitched.

There was a long pause between them.

“Please, Rupert,” she said finally. “As a favor to me. For Edna’s sake. ” At the mention of his grandmother’s name he tensed, nails biting into the flesh of his palms. How dare she drag his family into this? He owed her nothing. If his family had sought counsel from her before, then that was their business, not his. He held her gaze a moment, feeling the anger welling up inside of him. Then, with a sigh, he let it go.

“For Grandmother’s sake then. I’ll do some digging. I can’t promise anything though. You’re sure none of them recall anything else from the dreams? A name? Anything?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Rupert gathered the papers together. His stomach roiled a bit, but he pretended not to notice.

“I think I might still interview them. Just to make sure.  If you can get me a transcript of their reports and email it to me, I'll see what I can do,” he said.  He looked up at Arcadia. She’d always seemed so formidable when he was a child, tall and imposing, her long dark hair lengthening her already long face. Perhaps she’d been beautiful when she was young, however long ago that was, but age had given her features a haunted look. He traced in her face wrinkles that he knew had already worked deep into his own face, crows-feet, laugh lines, the sinking of flesh through loss of elasticity and succumbing to gravity. Beneath it all, behind the prison of bones and meat, lay a wellspring of power, sinking deep into the Earth.  

All over the world practitioners of magic had felt the meridians, the lines of power, warp and reset. Even he, weak though he was, had felt the shift. But for Arcadia, it must have been akin to physical pain. She drew all that she was from magic and God only knew what she had done to tie herself and her soul to it.

He sat down in the chair at the opposite end of the desk, exhausted with the knowledge of the task he'd just accepted. Behind him, the door opened with a creak.

“Giles?”

He turned abruptly to face the two women who’d entered and nearly fell out of his chair.

“Willow!” he gasped. There she was, pale and thin and soaked through from the rain, but still very much herself. She and the dark-haired woman with her both wore the green robes of initiates, which suggested to his overworked brain that she’d been here a while. He stared at Willow for a moment, unbelieving. When last he’d heard from the gang, they were heavily based in San Francisco. “I-I’d no idea you were in Scotland,” he stammered, stumbling to his feet. He moved toward her, but then realized they might not be on hugging terms.

Indeed, Willow made no move to touch him, staring at him as though she’d seen a ghost. Finally she managed a small wave, but no smile.

“It’s… been a while,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Not since… not since the Christmas before last,” he said. She nodded and Giles could tell from the set of her shoulders that she was just as uncomfortable as he was, perhaps even more so.

Before he knew what he was about, he was reaching up to grab his glasses.  Cleaning them gave him an excuse to ease the pain of eye contact with soothing blurriness.   “Well, then,” he said, once he’d regained his composure. “Just erm... visiting for a bit?”

“Yeah. I mean… sort of. I felt something weird. Magically weird,” she said, and Rupert could not help but trade looks with Arcadia, who smiled cheerily back at him. He replaced his glasses.

“Oh yes?” he said, turning back to Willow. Now that he saw her clearly, it was terrifying how much she had changed. His gaze went from her collarbone, to the hollows of her cheeks, to the dark circles under her eyes. One might have thought she hadn’t slept for weeks.

“Are you alright?” he asked with genuine concern.

“Yeah I’m just hunky dory.  Just some, you know, really light insomnia. I thought maybe a change in scenery would be good,” Willow said, without any real conviction. She looked at the papers in his hands and then at Arcadia. “I’m sorry. Were we interrupting something?”

“No, no, not at all,” Rupert said hastily. He tucked the papers into his jacket and snatched up his books. “I’ll leave you to your charges and... get back to you on your inquiry,” he said to Arcadia. “Thank you for having me.”  He made to move towards the door, when Arcadia stopped him.

“Oh come now, Rupert. Stay with us a while. There’s no use in you trudging through this storm back to your car. It's quite a drive to Edinburgh.” Never had he wanted so badly to just disappear.  He’d just meant to come here to get his bearings, pick up some books and be on his way. Instead he’d been thrust back into his old life, albeit temporarily.  Catching his gaze, Arcadia smiled brightly at him.  “I’m sure we’re all good friends here. Surely you can stay for a chat. I’m sure you and Willow have a lot to catch up on.”

Rupert was seized with a sudden and gripping paranoia. God, Buffy and the others all thought he’d gone crazy, hadn’t they? He couldn’t even begin to explain himself to his old friends. If they hadn’t understood then, how could he make them understand now?

“Um… I think I can’t afford to wait really. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll just be on my way.” He pushed past Willow and stepped out onto the patio, closing the door behind him. The sound of rain filled his ears, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d just walk around a bit, calm himself.  What was wrong with him? It was so unlike him to get emotional at just a chance meeting. He took a deep breath and began to make his way down the spiraling veranda that linked the bungalows.

His heart was still pounding when he heard the door of Arcadia’s study open. He heard the sound of thudding footsteps behind him. Before he had time to react Willow had grabbed him by his lapels and slammed him into the wall.

“W-Willow I--”

“Giles, you… you dummy!” she shouted, struggling to find words.  “Are you going to run away again?” Willow looked up at him without letting go. “I haven’t seen you for months! You don’t write, you don’t call. Dawn just flashes those postcards you send her around and that’s it! How can you just--”

“Willow, really this isn’t the place to talk about this--” he began, but the door opened again and Arcadia and the woman who’d accompanied Willow peered out at them.

“Shall we get the two of you a room?” Arcadia called out. She cackled with laughter, and Rupert personally felt there was no need to her to fall to that sort of stereotypical witch behavior.  

Willow pulled away, her normally pale face a bright red, though he could only guess if it was from anger or embarrassment.  Rupert felt just the slightest twinge of panic as she grabbed his arm and began to haul him off towards the other women.

“You’re not getting off that easy, Mister,” she said. “We’re going to talk about our feelings and you’re going to like it.”

“Listen,” he said, hoping his voice conveyed his seriousness. “Another time, Willow. I’m not… I’m not ready to have this devolve into a shouting match in front of…” He let himself trail off. Willow’s face was still very red, and he watched her eyes slowly turn hard and cold.

“You have a lot to answer for,” she said.

“I agree,” Rupert said. “You’re welcome to stay with me in Bath any time, or, God forbid, even call me. You can berate me all you like. But don’t do this here.” He’d dropped his voice until the sound of the rain just covered it.

“We’ve missed you,” Willow said, lowering her volume to match his. “Buffy doesn’t talk about it… but I know she’s sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it.  Willow let him go then, and Giles reflexively smoothed down his shirt. She then rummaged in her robes and pulled out a cellphone.

“Put your number in then,” Willow said, holding it out to him. “A number people can actually reach you with.” He took it, and fumblingly managed to write in a number before handing it back to her.

“I’ll be in the U.K for a little while, so you’re going to have to have that conversation some time. Whether you like it or not,” she added. She started to open her arms as if for a hug but seemed to change her mind. Instead she turned and walked back to join Arcadia and the other woman.

He could feel them watching him as he left the compound, and hurried his pace.

Before long he was picking his way carefully through the muddy field. The rain was coming down as hard as ever, but he was too unsettled to even complain.  His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out automatically.

 _just makin sure this is you,_ the message read.

It took several attempts before he managed to send a _Yes, it’s me._ in response.

 _Stupid thing,_ he thought. Rupert contemplated chucking his mobile into the nearest puddle but recalled that he needed it for the GPS.  Instead, he saved Willow’s number, fumbling again over the touch screen and then jamming it into his pocket.

That was it then. He was in contact. Responsible. Accountable. Available. Willow would keep her word, he knew, and they would have to talk. He would have to explain himself.  No. No, he could put that off. He’d miss calls, be a bit shifty, but not enough to arouse suspicion. She’d think he was just being himself again, and eventually she’d give up asking.

At least that was what he told himself.

When he arrived, the car was covered in wet leaves and he was forced to clean them off the windshield. As he bent over to take the leaves from the wipers, he saw it.

A magpie sat on the left side view mirror, bent over to look at itself. He wasn’t a superstitious man by nature, but he instinctively looked around for another. His grandmother's’ gentle voice echoed in his ears.

_“One for sorrow.”_

Rupert stared at it, and it stared back at him. It seemed unfazed by the steady downpour, nor did it stir when he opened the driver’s side and tossed his books in the passenger seat.  No matter how hard he looked there was just the one, and he resigned himself to feeling uneasy for the rest of the day.  

“Right,” he muttered to himself. “One of us has got to leave.”

At that, the bird cocked its head to the side, as if trying to puzzle him out, then (when it had finished its evaluation, he supposed) took off into the trees.

He watched it as it flew out of sight, its black and white wings glinting brightly against the foliage.

The papers in his coat crinkled as he pulled the car out of the copse, reminding him once again that he’d taken up the good fight, however reluctantly.

Along with the bird, he put that thought out of his mind.


	3. The High Priestess

**Chapter 2**

 

“Alright everyone, just stick close to me,” Willow said. Her voice barely carried over the rustling sounds of winter coats and hushed voices, but the group of students immediately stilled.  You would have thought they were an ordinary group of tourists, but the strict obedience to their leader immediately gave them away.

“It’s nice that it's so clear,” she continued. “The last couple times it was overcast, but I think you guys are going to see something pretty magical today.” The class muttered.

The youngest, Fiona, a slight American middle-schooler, perked up immediately. “Are we going to be be seeing, _real_ magic today?” she said. Her high pitched voice sounded incredibly loud in the open air.

“Well, man-made magic I guess.  Today, just as the sun peeks over the horizon, the light will shine from the entrance,” (Willow indicated it), “to the backstone.” The field seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of them from the summit.“Does anyone remember what this area is called?”

“ _Sliabh na Callighe_ ,” said a voice from the back. “The hills of the witch, translated from the Irish.”

“That’s great, Caleb,” said Willow. “Your pronunciation is so much better than mine! Have you been practicing?”  
  
“A little,” Caleb said, carefully avoiding eye contact, but he had a smile on his face all the same. The rest of the group gently murmured words of approval to him. Willow beamed at them all.

“Good!” she said. “I think, it’s just a few minutes until sunrise.” She led them into the cairn, and though there were other people there, they seemed to dematerialize as the group neared the back of the chamber. There was no need to silence the group again, as a hush seemed to come over them. The darkness of the chamber was suddenly lifted as a sliver of sun illuminated the wall of the backstone.  

Willow breathed deeply. There _was_ something magical about it, making the same journey that others had made for 5000 years.  The cairn resonated with energy, both of the people inside, and the ancient stone, new and old, dark and light, day and night.  The vernal equinox had always been special to her. It was sort of symbolic. The day when winter and spring battled, when the days began to grow long and the nights short. Willow leaned against the wall, letting herself become immersed in the energies around her.  Her students remained still, watching as the patch of sun grew larger and traced the weird spiraling carvings in the rock face.  Willow thought they looked more like flowers than anything. Or maybe they were plankton and phytoplankton. _That one looks like it has a bit of a cell wall_ , she mused.

Despite the rising sun, it was still freezing in the cairn, and the spellbound silence was broken by people stamping their feet and rubbing hands against arms to restore some circulation. The 10 minute walk up had warmed them, but the resulting cold sweat was working against that now. At least that was what Willow told herself. She couldn’t think of another reason for her clammy skin. Her stomach lurched, and now she was leaning against the wall for stability and not comfort.

Karina, one of her younger students, turned to her.

“Miss Rosenberg,” Karina asked in her clipped, accented English. “Are you well?”

Willow could not answer. Her eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the sunlight, which had widened into a large rectangle. Her students gathered around her, but their sounds dulled into an indistinguishable roar.  Willow tried to focus through the pain spreading through her skull and stomach.  She felt Fiona touch her shoulder. Aww _poor thing,_ Willow thought. _She’s shaking._

The roar around her grew more high pitched. Willow felt strangely outside herself as the people around her scattered in all directions. Someone tugged at her arm, and then tumbled on top of her as debris and rocks began to fall from the ceiling. The woman in front of her, (was her name Supna? Shana?) was saying something.  Supna’s dark eyes were wide with terror. What was she saying?

_“Miss Rosenberg, we have to leave!”_

The world came back to her in a rush of sound and color. “Oh Goddess, it’s an _earthquake_ ,” she said stupidly. Without thinking she dragged Supna down to the floor with her, holding the woman protectively as she whispered a spell of fortification.  Supna, seeming to realize what she was doing, joined hands with her, and Willow felt the fiery nature of the other woman’s magic coursing through the words of the spell.  By the time they got halfway through the spell, the shaking had stopped. Willow followed through with it for good measure however; once summoned, the energy for a spell had to be used regardless.

When they were done, Willow attempted to stand, but the feeling had gone from her legs. She ended up having to lean on Supna as they made their way out of the cairn to where the others awaited them.  Immediately Fiona rushed up to her.

“Oh gosh, oh my gosh,” she squeaked. “Are you ok? Were you hurt?”

“What happened?” said Josef, more seriously. He was tall, gangly Czech man in his 40’s, and his magic reminded her of the faint rumble of thunder on an overcast day.  

“I’m fine,” she said, gently disentangling herself from Fiona. “I just had a dizzy spell.”  The group seemed convinced enough of this, and talked excitedly amongst themselves as they all made their way back to civilization.

The sun had risen fully, staining the clouds in hues of gold and periwinkle.  It was a pale sun, offering little warmth to the tourists. Willow paused again and again to look at it, hoping that somehow the sight would cheer her.  There was something heavy in her chest still, a settled feeling. It caught as she breathed, and Willow had the image of splinters of ice spider-webbing through her lungs.

She closed her eyes and took a long, meditative breath, stilling the sparks of fear that cascaded through her.  Unbidden another thought came to her, and for some reason she was certain of it: this feeling would be with her a long time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_She watched the old woman pour the tea from the corner of his eye. It was impossible not to.  The woman’s hands, stained and yellowed as the doily that lay on the tea tray, shook slightly under the weight. Willow was stunned that she had the strength to lift it at all, that those mummy-like hands didn’t crumble under the strain.The old woman said something to Willow then, but her voice barely rose above the incessant screaming of the cicadas. Nonetheless, she  forced herself to look at her and nodded as though he understood. It took every ounce of concentration she had to stare directly at the woman and not at the fly slowly inching its way into her cup, but she managed to pull it off. She’d plenty of practice lying to her._

_The tarnished silver teapot caught the light as the woman moved it aside. A single drop of tea dangled precariously from the spout before landing on the doily and Willow had the sense of decades worth of empty days, of the steady drip of time wearing away the woman’s life. It made her stomach turn._

“Willow?”  

Willow jolted out of her daydream, if she could call it a daydream.  Fred looked at her, her elven face a mask of concern.

“Hmm?’ Willow said in response, as though this was absolutely something she did all the time.

The little restaurant they were at overlooked the water, and the sudden salt air breeze did as much to ground her as Fred’s voice had. Willow took the opportunity to look out at the ocean, willing herself to forget just how engrossed she’d been. It was like a sore in her mind that she couldn’t help but pick at. Where did it come from? she wondered. Was it memory or fantasy? Maybe it was a dream. She had such a hard time remembering her dreams.

A cool hand touched her face, startling her once again.

“Willow, are you doing ok? Are your migraines getting any better?”  Fred’s dark eyes searched Willow’s face, as though hoping to catch some outward symptom of an illness.

“They’re getting better,” Willow lied.  Truth was, she’d been feeling off for a while, but she couldn’t tell Fred that. Fred would want to investigate, would have pages of research on the latest treatments. So much of a hassle. It wouldn’t be worth the amount of energy Fred would devote to it. Willow felt a headache coming on just thinking of it.

“Do you think you’d still be up to try sailing today? We don’t have to…” Fred’s voice trailed off, but Fred was too smart, too perceptive. Willow had to really make an effort if she was going to pull the wool over her eyes.  
  
She took Fred’s hand and pressed a kiss to the tips of her fingers. To Willow’s relief, Fred blushed and smiled, and Willow was spared the trouble of answering any more questions.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The light in the library blurred for a moment as she adjusted her vision. It was not the first time Willow had woken up in the Council library with the red imprints of a leather book cover etched into her face, but this was different. She’d jolted up as if startled, scattering the papers of her research all over the wooden desk.  Her heart beat knifelike against her ribcage and for a moment she thought she might die.  There was a long moment as she held herself, feeling the sweat dripping down her forehead. Another beat.

The fugue passed. Finally, she dared move again, hands trembling as she steadied herself against the desk to look behind her. Everything was completely ordinary; she breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing lurking behind the solid wooden bookcases.  A loud hum startled her, and she looked around again, but it was just the sound of the fax machine spilling off papers. _Probably some Watcher’s report_ , she thought and exhaled slowly again, trying to calm her rushing heart.

 _What_ was _that?_ she thought.  She’d been dreaming, but the pieces she remembered were disjointed.

“Goddess,” she muttered. Willow leaned heavily on her hands; her pulse was still pounding against her temples and she closed her eyes against the pain. Part of her wanted to sleep. Part of her always wanted to sleep nowadays.

With another deep breath, she closed her eyes and looked within herself.

 _An itch,_ she remembered.

_An itch of skin flaking. Silk rubbed up against the wound as she walked. Where was this, she thought. In her mind’s eye, she saw a dimly lit street. Behind her shone a pale blue light. And…_

And that was it? She lifted her hands from her face and frowned. There was nothing else to the dream, nothing but the lingering sense of unease.

She sighed and shook her head.  The beginnings of a headache pulsed at her temples, so she immediately stopped. Fresh air maybe, she thought.  

Opening a window let the glorious spring breeze in, and Willow suddenly remembered the reason for the nagging feeling at the back of his mind. Of course. Tomorrow was Beltane. How could she have forgotten.

Fred had asked her if she was doing anything special today, and Willow had turned her down in favor of preparing. She’d meant to prepare a lesson. This was probably a good opportunity for teaching all the baby witches about the complex intertwining of magic and science.

The thought stirred a sense memory. Fir needles. She remembered the smell of them from the dream. Then with a sudden influx of nausea she remembered the scent that accompanied it: the smoky, almost bacony smell of burnt flesh.

Willow leaned against the windowsill until the urge to be sick had passed. Maybe she would lie down a bit and hope things felt better.

*~*~*~*~*~

With a slow, careful brush stroke, Willow painted the last line of the ‘H’ on the cardboard of her notebook. She’d had the dream again. This time the details were even fainter, like water-smudged ink in her brain.    
  
Re-occuring dreams were all well and good, but that was Buffy’s thing. Or at least, it had been Buffy’s thing. Now that the Slayer gift had spread to others, the burden of the past Slayers’ memories was much lighter.  There was no need for Buffy to be the direct link to the Powers That Be, so of course she wasn’t. And everyone was much happier for it.

Absently, Willow traced the shape with her finger. There was no magic in it, as far as she could tell. She couldn’t even feel a hum. And yet her mouth tasted metallic. _A metallic taste.._.

_A silver tea set. A lace doily. A pale blue light. A symbol branded in skin._

“Willow?” said a voice.

She looked up. Andrew stood there, his face twisted with concern. He fidgeted, long nervous fingers squeezing and moving over his hands.

“Huh? What?”she said.

“I uh called your name a couple of times. Are you ok?” he asked.  She looked down at the book in front of her, _A Warlock’s Compendium of Mystical Symbols_.

“Yeah,” she said, without conviction. “I’m ok.”

~*~*~*~

She woke up screaming again. The neighbor’s cat screeched in response. She could have laughed, if she hadn’t been so caught up in burying her head under the covers.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Willow. Psst. Hey. Hey, Willow. Will!!!”  She jolted awake as someone began to shake her back and forth.  

“Huh?” she said. The faces of the board members stared back at her over the meeting table. Dawn shot her a look of disapproval before returning to the graph of the Qua’rahn demon stronghold.

Willow’s face grew instantly hot, but eventually everyone’s attention returned to Dawn.  Xander, at her right, nudged her gently.

“Late night?” he whispered. Willow gave him a weak smile and nodded.

I~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Willow stared up at the ceiling. It had been exactly 35 hours since she’d slept properly.  Though she knew there were things she could do to ease the insomnia, when it came down to it she’d rather not sleep at all. She’d almost given in a couple of times. She’d tried a catnap during the day, but the moment her head hit the sofa cushion she’d smelled the burnt flesh.

The bile threatened to rise in her throat again, so she reached for the glass of water at her bedside table. Maybe, she thought, she could let her body sleep without having to be in it.

Astral projection was somewhat frowned upon, except in cases of emergency, but she, Willow, had more control over her body than your average bear.

A few warding spells and she’d be as safe as could be. _Just to rest,_ she thought.   _Just for tonight._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The bacon reminded her of the smell. She pushed her plate away, and wondered why she’d never thought to go vegan. At the back of her eyes was the faint prickling that signaled a migraine, but darkness meant sleep. She could not sleep in her body.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It occurred to her that she should probably tell someone. She’d sewed mistletoe and wood betony into her pillow, but to no avail. She took them out and cast them on the floor around her bed. Anyone stopping by her room would know they were for protection; that would do as a warning for now.

She lit a candle again and let herself drift.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Willow glanced at her lesson plan as she faced the class. She’d written it out. She was sure she had.

Etched into the paper, so deep in places that it had almost broken through, was a swirling symbol, not unlike the letter “H.” Over and over again, line by line. Her eyes raked over them, and an intense dizziness overwhelmed her. She clutched desperately at the desk, but sank to her knees anyway, trembling with the effort of even that.

Her students, her poor students, gathered around her like so many sad puppies. She watched as Fiona pulled out her cellphone and called… someone.  Willow couldn’t stay awake to find out who. _Poor puppies_ , she thought, and passed out.

It was so strange looking down at your own body.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The Council’s Library was inexpressibly large, and despite all of Andrew’s work, not even a third of it had been transcribed to their digital archive.

 _Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to find_ , she thought. Her head ached. The words were beginning to blend together on the page.

 _But something_ is _wrong_ , she thought. _I just have to figure out what._

*~*~*~*~*~*

She awoke with scream, clutching the covers closer to her chest. Andrew, Xander, and Dawn stood around her;  Dawn, beautiful Dawnie, looked down at her with a mixture of sternness and concern, while Andrew and Xander hung back, wide-eyed with surprise. It took a moment for her to calm down and take in her surroundings. White walls, white sheets, and drawn curtains immediately made it clear she was in the medical ward, and the sheer embarrassment of the situation made her want to crawl back under the covers and never speak to anyone again.

“Jeez, Will,” said Xander, breaking the increasingly awkward silence. “You scared the pants off of me.”  Willow tried to think of something useful and comforting to say, but Dawn’s serious face threw her off guard completely. She wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of that look. Ever since Dawn had taken over Buffy’s position as the Council’s leader, Dawn had reserved that look exclusively for baby slayers who broke the rules and for incompetent instructors.

“Willow,” said Dawn, in her fancy C.E.O-of-an-international-organization voice. “We need to talk.”

*~*~*~*~*~*

“Fred called again,” said Andrew. He stood in the doorway of her room, hands in his pockets, shifting his weight uneasily from foot to foot. Willow didn’t look up; she was too busy shoveling various items of clothing into her suitcase. “She uh said you hadn’t been answering her calls,” he continued. “Is everything ok with you two?”  Willow paused.

“Yeah,” she said, but her voice was no more than a whisper.

~*~*~*~*~*

The train ride seemed an eternity.

~*~*~*~*~

_She moved above herself. This was a lower  level of projection, closer to her real body. She was buried in memories. To her mind’s eye they registered as flowers. A sea of snowdrops and asters and in the distance, a few daffodils.  At her feet was a cluster of poppies._

_“_ The magic just isn’t there _,” said the Poppy. She turned and looked into its petals and remembered._

Fred twisted the rope into a knot, purposely turning away from her. Willow imagined her feeling the burn of the salt against her palm. The sea breeze tousled Fred’s gorgeous dark hair and Willow couldn’t even work up the longing to want to touch it.

“What does that even mean?” Fred asked, without looking up at her. She was making a show of checking the ropes, though the boat was properly moored now. Willow hadn’t meant anything by it.  She’d said the first thing that came to mind, but it felt true, but in what sense it was true she had no idea.

Speaking of ideas, this had been a terrible one.  Reliving this memory was so painful that it disrupted her concentration, made her astral form waver. Desperately she tried to move levels, but the dreamscape was falling apart. A memory was tugging at her brain but she just couldn’t make out what it was. Was it a  conversation? Something she’d read? The gentle waves of the ocean? A blue _light?_

_A blue light. A silver teapot. The edges of a lace doily. The warmth of a hand on her shoulder.  Roaring flames licking at her feet. A metallic taste. A pure white moon rising over the ocean. The smell of burning flesh. A swirling sigil, branded in skin._

_And she awoke._

Willow blinked. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, illuminating the bare stone floor of her room. She shifted slightly and froze, realizing that her legs were asleep. Had she stayed out all night? Carefully, she untucked her legs, leaning as far back on her hands as she could to keep from putting too much pressure on them. Sister Rosemary would freak if she knew she’d let herself wander in astral form again.  The guilt of it sat heavy in her stomach. Even quiet Heather had remarked that she’d seemed less of a zombie lately and the potions that Agnes prepared her had all but banished the nightmares. She’d been doing better. Why had she let herself slip like that? She frowned and thought back to her first day at the Safehouse.

“You felt it then?” Agnes had asked her. “The meridian shift?”

“Is that what it was? I thought that was super rare. Like Ice Ages,” Willow had said.

“Ice Ages are not all that rare, and meridian shifts do happen. I imagine that’s why you’re feelings so out of sorts. It will take a while for your body to adjust to the new energies. All sorts of things can happen. Dizzy spells. Migraines. Body aches-”

“Nightmares?”

“Nightmares and insomnia as well. You have nothing to worry about, Willow.”

She’d spent the few weeks at the Coven, meditating in the sparse rooms, and each day Sister Rosemary would gently ask if she was planning on going outside today.  It was getting on her nerves, though she frantically calmed herself whenever her fellow witch returned to check on her. Some of the coven could read auras, and she strongly suspected Rosemary of that particular talent.  Or maybe Willow was just terrible at hiding her feelings.  That tended to happen, her counselor had said, when you uncovered two decades of repressed anger. She used to be so _good_ at hiding her feelings. Maybe too good. It certainly hadn’t done any wonders for her love life.

A steaming cup of green liquid sat beside her. They knew, she thought. They always knew.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The taste of bile rose in her throat. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and put her head between her knees. Mercifully, the urge to vomit passed. Her head still ached, and for a moment, she lost control.  Her body dropped to the floor in a heap, and yet the rest of her remained on the bed. The relief was short. In the span of a blink she was on the floor and looking out through her own eyes.

The nausea was back.

She’d landed on something soft thankfully, her bag it turned out. Gingerly she pulled it out from underneath herself and lay on the stone floor.There was a perfectly comfortable bed in the corner but there was a time for comfort and a time for suffering and Willow wanted very much to suffer right now. Sister Rosemary had been assigned to watch over her the last time she’d had a breakdown, and she couldn’t help wondering if the Coven thought her visit was just a precursor to another episode of Dark Willow.  It was ridiculous. _I’m not having a breakdown,_ she thought. _Why doesn’t anyone think I can handle myself?_

Her bag buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. Without lifting her body from the floor, she reached for it and dug her phone out.  A couple messages: a mass text from Buffy, a cheerful good morning from Xander, a message from Fred (to be left unread indefinitely) and one sent last night from Dawn asking if she’d like to go to lunch tomorrow. Her thumb hovered over it. No. She would wait to respond to that one. It was an innocent text, but all Willow could think of was what their future conversation would entail. It was Dawn, after all, who had “suggested” she come here, though not without Buffy and Xander’s support.

 _They must think I’m crazy,_ she thought to herself.

“They must think I’m crazy,” she said aloud. Her counselor, Sister Agnes, had recommended it.  Out loud, it sounded stupid, which she assumed was the point.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Someone knocked at the door.

“Willow?” Rosemary’s voice carried, muffled through the wooden door.  “Are you--?”

“I’m meeting Dawn today,” she called back, hopefully sounding not too annoyed. Maybe Rosemary was right. It would be good to get away from herself.

She dressed slowly, running over in her mind what she was going to say, how she was going to present herself today.

Willow was many things. Willow: mother of slayers. Willow: hacker extraordinaire. Willow:  friend and lover. Willow: murderer seething with resentment. Willow: ordinary woman with no purpose.

She’d been Willow: head of the magic department for the newly-reinstated School of Watchers and Slayers, until Dawn had pulled her aside.

“Mandatory leave?” she’d asked, mouth agape. Dawn had just shaken her head as though this move should have been obvious.

“I just don’t see what the problem is,” Willow had said. “I thought we were all over the whole ‘Magic is bad and dangerous, Willow is out of control,’ deal. It’s only a myth that astral projection leaves you vulnerable to possession. That’s only for like… low level magic dabblers. I know what I’m doing, Dawn. It’s a spiritual thing.”

“Then why is it messing with your mood? Your sleep? You were starting to be weird even before you and Fred broke up.  What happened to that anyway? I thought you guys were doing ok.”

“It’s just complicated,” Willow had said, nervously rubbing her face against her hand, as though that would ease the anxiety building in her chest.  “I thought it was a magical thing, you know?”

Willow couldn’t quite read Dawn’s expression, but hoped what she saw was compassion and not pity.

*~*~*~*~*~

At the breakfast meet with Dawn, Willow tried to keep her voice cheerful and natural, like this was a nice normal family outing instead of an intervention.

“Maybe it’s not really a magical thing,” said Dawn, through a mouthful of bacon. “Maybe it’s just a person thing. I know you’re more into the whole spiritual healing schtick but--” at this point Dawn reached into her wallet and pulled out a business card. “It might be worth it to call someone up to talk about things with. She’s magic-savvy too, so you don’t have to lie or anything.”

“You want me to see a shrink?” Willow said. She made no move to take the card from Dawn.

“It’s just if you’re interested,” Dawn said, and with that she pushed the card into Willow’s hands. “It’s good to have options and they’re on the company pay so…” She shrugged.

Willow did her best to look happy that Dawn was thinking of her.

“I-I’ll keep her in mind,” Willow said. “It was good to see you.” Dawn gave her a soft smile and pulled her in for a hug.

“Be safe,” Dawn said. “And call me if you need anything.”

“Of course,” Willow lied. With that, they parted.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_She let her roots sink deep into the earth. In the darkness there were echoes of tectonic plates cleaving to each other, the churning of the mantle, and all across the surface were  little sparks of magic like her own. They lit up the inside as much as the light of the cities lit the surface of Earth from space. The tendrils of her astral self extended toward each of them, welcoming them in._

_She examined the nearest. Was it a Potential, now realized? A latent magic user? Someone with the Sight? A witch or a demon? She could not see auras, but if she let herself go still, she could taste the flavor of each spark’s magic, and when she awoke, it registered in color. Synesthesia was a real problem when projecting; a spirit was ill-suited towards processing information for a physical body._

_Most witches had problems keeping a solid form, let alone keeping their body in their physical shape, but Willow slipped out of her skin as easily as she’d slipped into her pajamas. She could even manipulate her shape, as she did now, floating in the shape of a dryad._

_The closest spark beckoned to her. It was gentle, familiar, a soft bottle-green.  She took it into her root hands, felt its warmth seeping into her spirit. I know you, she thought. Her own magic was a vivid red, and the green bled into it like a drop of ink into water. She recoiled at that, and this close she felt a darkness to it, a solid core of twisted knots, decaying within it from lack of circulation._

_She dropped it before it could bleed any deeper into her. As she pulled away from the waking dream, she felt the faintest catch of the bottle-green spirit on hers, like a hand slipping out of her grasp._

The sunlight filtered through the windows of the Meditation room. Willow smiled, leaned into the warmth, slowly waking up her cold body. When she opened her eyes, she startled.

She was sitting in the middle of the stone floor, cross-legged.

“Oh no, _again_?” she whispered. She must have been there for hours. She shifted slightly, and yep, her legs were totally asleep. Very, very slowly, she uncrossed her legs, wincing at the pins and needles, and lay back on the floor.

She felt a hard lump against her back, and reaching underneath herself found her phone.  The unread text message from Fred stared back at her. Right underneath it was Giles’ terse reply from a few weeks ago.

_Yes it’s me._

The monotony of day to day mediation was starting to wear on her. She needed to do something. Giles would do as a distraction. Coaxing secrets out of the old man was enough of a job for anyone, and then she could ask… ask what?

Willow turned onto her side and nearly upset a steaming cup of something green and smoothie-like.  Ahh, so someone had been looking after her after all. Out of gratitude, she sat up and downed it in one go. It was grainy and grassy, like most potions, but it settled her stomach and immediately made her sleepy.

Tummy full, she sighed and looked out of the window. The day was bright, but she could just see the gathering cumulonimbus clouds at the edge of the horizon, like horrible grey cotton candy monsters.

Or what did they call it here? Candy floss? Fairy floss? Some dental thing.  

Giles would know. He knew everything.

She sat up abruptly.

Giles _did_ know everything. Everything that mattered. He’d know. He’d know for _sure_  if something was wrong with her, wouldn’t he?

Before long a faint drizzle began to coat the windows. The ice inside her lungs clenched painfully.

She could ask him. Maybe they could… maybe they could be friends again. It was as good an excuse as any.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Loughcrew Passage Tombs are totally real. If you're interested here are a couple of websites about them. There's even a restaurant pretty close by.
> 
> http://www.voicesfromthedawn.com/loughcrew/
> 
> http://www.newgrange.com/news37.html


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